The White Wolf and his Bloody Lark
by Tossafanfic1981
Summary: What a pair they made - the Witcher and the Bard.


It had been a mistake when it had happened. Geralt had been busy fighting off his own monster and Jaskier hadn't known, hadn't _seen _the other one sneaking up behind him and biting into the tender flesh of his shoulder.

He had yelled, Geralt had heard and in another few minutes it was all over and the Witcher stood dripping in monster guts, eyes wild and dark and silver sword clutched in his hand like a lifeline.

Looking back, Jaskier realized that they (Geralt) had done everything they could to fix it – the gaping wound on his shoulder. Three inches wide and leaking pus and other ghastly liquids, Geralt had taken one look at it and had hoisted Jaskier up to the healer.

And the Healer was good, she was _good._ She was kind and nice and smelled of beautiful flowery things and she was good. She had given Jaskier a potion for the pain, stitches for his wound and a smile for the road before sending them on their way.

On their way they had gone, Jaskier the humble bard, prone to burst into song and the dark Witcher with his grunts and curses. They had travelled a good distance when he first _felt it. _It was nothing more than a subtle twinge in his jaw, a horrid discomfort, sure, but nothing too painful to handle. Jaskier surmised he had merely overworked his jaw with his beautiful voice.

Geralt disagreed (about his _beautiful _voice, not the overworking)

Filling-less pies came to mind.

* * *

The fever came a few days after. A gentle heat at first, which Geralt sensed almost immediately, but decided to say naught. It evolved into a flaming crescendo overnight and the Witcher was confused because surely humans weren't so delicate?

( They weren't )

* * *

To his credit, Jaskier rode through it all, complaining of nothing but hunger because apparently Geralt's supplies and daily bounties of pheasants and hares weren't enough. They didn't fill his stomach in the right way. His teeth wanted something tougher, meatier and they refused to sit right in his mouth, making his jaw ache.

Geralt noticed that the bard's silence and attributed it to the fever. Jaskier shook his head, he didn't feel the burning heat of his own skin.

He was just so hungry.

* * *

The next town they entered was a merry affair. Happy mothers and happy couples and just _happy, happy _people. Witchers weren't needed but a bard? Oh yes, a bard would fit right in.

Jaskier's songs and jigs and ditties managed to cover for a room and two hearty meals but they didn't put a dent in the bard's hunger. The meat was tender and the stew was rich but they didn't fill him up. They didn't tear and break against his teeth like he wanted and his teeth were just _so uncomfortable, melitele-_

The little bard ate more than the Witcher that night.

* * *

Jaskier tasted blood and he liked it.

He had tripped on a rock and fallen on his face and cut his tongue with his teeth that _still didn't sit right _and there was a gush of hot sweet blood that he didn't mean to swallow but he _did_ and it felt so _good._

He stood up with bloodied teeth (that sat right) and a bloodied tongue and a bloodied throat.

_It felt so good._

* * *

Geralt would be lying if he said he didn't notice it.

Jaskier, fond of luxuries and grilled meat and elegance, was ready to tear apart the neck of a rabbit with his teeth. Jaskier who smelt of spices and perfumes, now reeked of iron. Jaskier who did not like violence or punching or hunting had chased down a pheasant and had snapped its neck in half because he was _hungry._ Jaskier who was all softness and gentle curves now looked at Geralt like he was a piece of meat.

Jaskier was Jaskier but he _wasn't _and Witchers don't feel but Geralt –

Geralt was worried.

* * *

Jaskier was elated, delighted, exuberant, the personification of happiness. His teeth fit right and his stomach was full (Who know all it would take would be a little blood?) and he sang through bloodied lips and smiled through bloodied teeth at Geralt who never smiled back.

_What a mighty pair we make, _he sang, voice high and clear.

_What a pair we make, the Witcher and Bard – The White Wolf and the bloody lark_

* * *

The witch said it was in his blood, that it ran through his veins like poison, that it was a _curse. _

_We haven't met a witch or a mage, _Geralt countered, _He can't be hexed. _And the witch laughed.

_Blood magic is a tricky thing, _and she smiles, _blood curses are tricky things – blood to blood, skin to skin, bite to bite._

And Geralt can smell the tang of rust in the air, can hear the sound of Jaskier's laugh and the crunching of broken bones and he knows he'll find the bard playing with the blood of a kitten when he goes outside.

The witch and the Witcher are silent as they listen to the slow _drip, drip, drip _of blood and the horrendous squelching sounds of raw meat being swallowed.

_You can't save him, Witcher._

And Geralt breaks.

* * *

After the whole affair is over and the bard is gone –

_Heisdeadheisdeadyoukilledhimheisdead_

The bard is gone and the White Wolf walks alone yet he doesn't because Jaskier is there –

_Heisnotitisnothim_

But Jaskier is _not _there but Geralt sees him anyway, bluebell eyes and crimson doublet. A song on his lips and a gaping hole in his gut –

_Youputthatthereyouranhimthrough_

And the witch was right, and the lark was dead and the wolf was alone.

(_What a pair they had made, the Witcher and Bard. A white wolf and a bloody lark)_


End file.
